


Alternative Medicine

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Auror Power Couple, Drinking, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Speakeasies, World War I, boys' night out, surprise lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 16:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10948029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: Theseus has this unnerving ability to look absolutely innocent even after all this time: as if he truly believes that ‘one drink’ nonsense, as if those words don't carry the guaranteed future of a hideous hangover, hideous memories, and hideous attempts to look co-workers in the eye the next day.





	Alternative Medicine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flightinflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/gifts).



> Alternative summary: In which two senior aurors get smashed and a junior auror discovers you're never too young to be too old for this shit.
> 
> For the prompt: "Post-movie Theseus visits Graves to see if he is alright. He thinks Graves needs to loosen up a little, so he convinces him to go bar hopping with him. They of course get drunk and reminiscing about their time during the war they cause bit of a havoc.   
> \- Or that time Tina had to arrest her boss for being drunk and disorderly"

Graves is vaguely aware of a commotion outside his office. Of course, Graves' office is in the Department of Magical Security, so there is generally always a commotion happening outside his office. He learned fairly early on that the best thing to do – at least if he wants to get through what remains a truly unnecessary amount of paperwork – is to simply ignore it and wait for the commotion to come to him. Which it inevitably does.

Sure enough, the door bursts open, as if that's supposed to impress him. "Percy!"

Graves does not look up. "No."

He hears an overdramatic sigh and can quite clearly imagine the rolled eyes, the exaggerated body language. "I just said your name, Perce."

Hardly. "Whatever you're here for, Scamander, the answer is no."

Theseus Scamander makes a noise which sounds an awful lot like the Graves family's cat coughing up a hairball. It's a thoroughly unpleasant image. "So formal," he comments, kicking the office door shut behind him. Graves doesn't see this, but he unfortunately has far too much experience with the sound. (The door slamming on him over and over, leaving him in the dark again and again.) "Clearly you need a break from this place."

Graves fights the flinch. He isn't sure whether he wins. "I think you'll find I already did." (For three months.) He keeps his gaze pointed at the parchment in front of him, but couldn't say whether it's Form 23C for a Section 14B9 Epsilon or an advert for a hippogriff breeding contest. The words don't want to stay still.

There's an irritating scrape as the chair opposite is dragged away from the desk; the soft thud of a bag dropped to the ground; the creak and exhalation as a body drops down; and finally an abrupt thump as a well-made, well-worn, and overwhelmingly filthy pair of boots appear barely a few inches from Graves' head. Reluctant to give even an inch, he nevertheless finally looks up.

Theseus is studying him with an expression which has never signified anything good in Graves' future. It's eerily similar to a face Graves has already seen his brother pull a few times when faced by impounded creatures as yet unrepresented inside that infernal case of his. The narrowed eyes, slightly frown, pursed lips, and general air of an impending disaster all combine to make Graves' blood run cold every time.

(He notes, in the same moment, that Theseus looks rather more tired than the last time they met. His hair has grown a little shaggier, while his omnipresent stubble has almost turned into an actual beard. He looks, Graves thinks uneasily, as if the war was only last year.)

When the silence only stretches out, Graves sighs. "What do you want, then?"

"Hmm." Theseus taps a finger against his leg, slowly. "I suppose you could say I want a lot of things." He pauses, just a beat too long. "However!" And suddenly his feet are back on the floor and he's looming over the desk, forcing Graves to finally sit up if only to lean back in his chair (fighting all the while not to magically shove Theseus back against the door and far away from him). "For now, I want you to accompany me."

Graves frowns. "Scamander, I hardly think – "

"Ah, ah!" Theseus holds up a finger to silence him. Somehow, this works. "Theseus only, I refuse to have you call me anything else. And I don't mean anything _untoward_ , really, whatever do you think of me?"

"I think you're a menace."

Theseus grins at that, bright and wide. It's more of a real smile than Graves thinks he's seen in months (granted for a long stretch of that time he was watching a rehearsed smile on his own face), and he blames that for the sensation of getting punched in the chest. "No need to sweet talk me, Percy. You already have me for the night."

Oh dear sweet Morgana. "No."

"You tried that one already. It didn't work. Now," and the grin turns more manic, "are you coming willingly, or do I have to take alternative measures?"

("You _are_ going to help me eventually, Mr Graves," Grindelwald had purred in his ear, with his voice, "so do I have to force you, or are you going to make things easy on yourself?")

Graves swallows, throat suddenly dry. Theseus' eyes narrow again, definitely noticing the action. That, more than anything, is why instead of throwing out the possibly-less-insane-but-investigations-are-still-underway Scamander brother out of his office – and perhaps the entire city if he has any say in it – Graves opens his mouth and says, "All right."

Theseus looks slightly wrong-footed by this response. "Really?"

"Yes."

Surprise quickly fades into suspicion. "Just like that?"

Graves looks down at the paperwork, and the paperwork looks back at him. "If you'd rather not..."

He feels Theseus' hand close around his shoulder, and he can’t help tensing at the contact (the friendlier the first touch, the more painful whatever came next). Theseus doesn't let go, but he definitely relaxes the grip, and Graves notices the heat of it through his shirt. Theseus' hands are always too hot; the man is an absolute furnace and during the war that could be a real blessing. "Leave it be, Percy," he commands. "The only written words we have business with tonight are pub signs."

Graves sighs, if only to show willing, before he heaves himself to his feet. It's harder than it should be. Everything feels a little stiff (besides the various aches he has to accept, knowing the medicine that makes him drowsy is infinitely worse than just pain), and he struggles to remember the last time he moved to do anything other than unearth the next form. At least his coat still comes to him with a simple gesture (the wandless magic finally returning after weeks of working the potions out of his system), and Theseus obligingly steps out of its way.

"You are aware," Graves asks drily, as he shrugs into it, "that the no-majs have made drinking illegal?"

Theseus rolls his eyes. “‘You are aware’,” he parrots back, in an exaggerated drawl which frankly Graves doesn't think he deserves, "that most muggles think that's as ridiculous that we do?" Mercifully rising back into the rounded vowels Graves has equally mocked in the past, he adds with an expansive shrug, “It’s one drink, Perce. Nothing wrong with one drink.”

Graves looks at him. Theseus has this unnerving ability to look absolutely innocent even after all this time: as if he truly believes that ‘one drink’ nonsense, as if those words don't carry the guaranteed future of a hideous hangover, hideous memories, and hideous attempts to look co-workers in the eye the next day. This too has turned out to be a family trait, meaning Graves can only imagine what their parents are like.

(Most of his co-workers refuse to meet his eyes these days. Some avoid him altogether, either unable to comprehend a stolen face or simply not caring about the difference.)

He settles his scarf around his neck and says, “I sound nothing like that.”

\-----------

Their first stop – “our _only_ stop,” Graves had insisted, only to be dismissed with an imperious wave of the hand like a bee or an office minion – is _The Speckled Hippogriff_ just around the corner from the Woolworth Building. It’s dark and full of MACUSA employees and exactly the sort of place Graves aims to avoid in life. While technically everyone present is either off-duty or extremely skilled at avoiding charms aimed to prevent drinking on the job, he can never shake the sense that he should be monitoring the clientele and they clearly believe the same.

Theseus, naturally, has no such qualms. Apparently oblivious to the lull in conversation as they enter, he strides straight up the bar and somehow acquires not only service but several glasses of what Graves can only hope is beer by the time Graves has reaches the same point.

"I was thinking more in the way of firewhiskey," Graves says, eyeing the array of glasses with trepidation. "Something that – " He never finishes the sentence, because Theseus has already drained one glass in mere seconds and slid it back across the bar to the far-too-amused house elf watching the two of them.

He looks over expectantly at Graves. “No pressure, Perce,” he lies, “but you might be falling behind there.” He downs half of the newly refilled glass in his hand, and then pointedly prods one of the others across the bar towards Graves. "Come on. Chop chop."

Graves glares at him, but also picks up the glass. "You know – ”

“Less talking,” Theseus interrupts, “more drinking.”

“You – “

“You can talk when you're done.” Theseus pokes him in the shoulder, as if they're adolescents – albeit adolescents in a bar surrounding by magical law enforcement agents – and not grown men. “Drink. Drink. Drink.” He punctuates each repetition with another poke.

In slight desperation – Graves is intensely aware that they’re probably already the subject of gossip for the rest of the night, which is always the disadvantage of drinking in the _government employees’ official bar_ , what is Theseus _thinking_ – Graves takes a deep gulp and has already seized Theseus firmly by the arm and yanked him towards a suitably dark and secluded booth before the taste hits. He fights back the urge to choke, if only because he hardly needs the minions thinking he's a lightweight (as well as a traitor), and before Theseus tries to poke him again, he forces the rest of it down.

Theseus somehow levitated several glasses while being forcibly escorted over here, albeit not as full as they once were. Because of course he did. "One down," he tells Graves, enthusiastically holding up his glass in a salute, "many more to go."

"What _is_ this?" He’s fairly certain beer never used to taste this terrible. They drank enough of it during the war, though granted he’s noticed American beer never does taste the same. He’d assumed that had more to do with not getting shot at every day.

"Honestly?" Theseus shrugs. "Not a clue. I asked for something to get us shitfaced." He manages a straight face for all of three seconds before he bursts out laughing. “Sorry, Perce, but your _face_... It's Gwen serving, I asked for whatever we had last time. Seemed to do the trick then.”

Graves doesn’t remember much of last time, which is exactly the problem. However, he accepts the replacement glass shoved into his hand because he’d always found it hard to say no to Theseus, especially when he gets like this. While he doesn't drink it in a single gulp the way Theseus would no doubt prefer, it's still gone faster than he'd like. (It's all faster than he'd like.) "What are we calling ‘the trick’? Getting drunk?”

Theseus spins one of the empty glasses with a twist of his wrist, a feat apparently more fascinating than looking at someone while answering their question. “You could look at it that way.”

“You came all the way to America to drink?”

“I came ‘all the way to America’ to see _you_ , Percy, you don't have to act so surprised about it.” However, before Graves can begin to think about the implications he then promptly drops the subject in favour of launching into an extensive narrative about the trip over here, the endless politics of the portkey office, and navigating his way through “bloody hundreds of _Americans_ , why are there so many of you anyway?” In the manner of most of Theseus’ stories, he breaks off the thread constantly, to follow stray thoughts or realising he’s forgotten what he was about to say or to remind Graves of the drink in his hand. Graves sits back and sips slowly as he listens to all that ostentatiously downed beer hit with its usual inevitability.

Theseus has never been ashamed of being a lightweight, and in one sense, that can be inspiring. In fact, he's exactly the opposite: a lightweight who's proud of being so. It’s never stopped Graves from commenting on it, though, and especially when faced by a senior auror resorting after three failed attempts to replacing the word ‘inconsequential’ with ‘stupid’.

"It makes me a very cheap night out," Theseus says in his defence, the same way he has every single time the booze has hit him sooner – not that that's purely a matter of tolerance, Theseus also has a marked tendency to always run straight towards getting drunk. "Cheap and fast."

Maybe it's the glasses of mysterious liquid. Maybe it's because he could almost forget the rest of the bar is there, that this is another drinking session in Europe celebrating not being dead. Whatever the reason, Graves hears himself respond automatically, "You're cheap and fast."

Theseus stares at him for a moment, before laughing, a little too loud, and completing the exchange, "If that's what you're after, you'll have to buy me a drink first."

It's not even that funny. Any real humour in it died out a while ago, killed off by pure repetition. Then again, it's that repetition which makes it both familiar and ridiculous: Graves finds himself smiling softly for a moment, and Theseus smiles back, not as large as before but somehow warmer.

It is only a moment though. Something catches Graves’ attention (or maybe nothing, it doesn’t take much for the paranoia to seize him) and when he glances around, he's suddenly all too aware of half the bar pretending not to be watching them, turning away too fast or flicking their eyes up and away as if they think they're being subtle. He hasn’t drunk much really, but already he can feel it making a bid for freedom.

(“Let’s say you do make it out of here,” Grindelwald had asked, in one of his dreaded philosophical moods, “do you really think they'd let you back in? Do you think any of them would ever trust you again?”)

He swallows, before turning sharply back at the loud thunk of glass hitting wood to see Theseus suddenly on his feet. “You know what? I’m bored. Let's go.”

Graves stares up at him, feeling like his mind is moving far slower than it should. “We only just got here.”

“And now we're leaving.” Theseus clearly considers dragging him to his feet, but thankfully settles instead for just walking out, Graves following in his wake a moment later. (He can feel the gazes that follow him out and they’re right. He doesn't belong here.)

Outside is cold, naturally, but it's mercifully quieter already – not that an auror bar gets particularly rowdy, exactly, but something about the familiarity of those voices means he can't block them out. Theseus rewraps the same red and yellow scarf he’s worn the entire time Graves has known him tighter around his neck, despite the warmth surely provided by the alcohol. "If I wanted to be cold," he announces in the timeless manner of the drinking man, partly to Graves and partly to the rest of the city, "I could have stayed in London."

"You hate London," Graves reminds him.

"I hate the _people_ in London," Theseus insists, before eyeing Graves like something has personally offended him. "Your scarf's ridiculous, Perce. That thing can't be warm at all."

"Only one of us is wearing a ridiculous scarf, Theseus, and it's certainly not me." Graves sighs, watching the cloud of his breath form in the air. "I assume you have somewhere to stay tonight?"

"Oh, we're not done yet."

Of course. Graves would be so lucky. "We've already left the bar."

Theseus rolls his eyes, gesturing expansively at the street with enough force to overbalance and send him stumbling a few steps across the sidewalk. "There are _other bars_ , Perce. You were being weird in that one."

Graves raises an eyebrow. "'Weird'?"

Theseus shrugs, and waves a hand in the air as if that somehow explains anything at all. "Weird. Anyway, bad call on my part, next stop will be better. I'm in the mood for some tourism."

Oh merciful – "You are not defacing another landmark."

For a moment Theseus looks a little confused, but then his expression clears and he beams at Graves. "You said you didn’t remember that!"

“I said I’ve tried to wipe it from my memory. I’m surprised the Belgians let you back in.”

"They’re reasonable people there, and besides, it’s not like I start conversations with it. _Anyway_ ," Theseus says slowly – which in this case means that somehow a single word takes an eternity to say – "here's my question: do you know any muggle speakeasies?"

Graves stares at him in horror. "No."

"No, you don't, or 'Theseus, no'?"

" _No._ "

"I'm hearing 'Theseus, no'."

"That's because I'm saying, 'Theseus, _no_."

Theseus points a finger in Graves' face in triumph. Graves is half-tempted to bite it off. "So you _do_ know some!"

"You do recall that there are laws about mixing with no-majs? Not to mention a thousand other reasons why this is a _terrible_ idea?"

Theseus makes a sound best transcribed as 'psh'. "Do you expect me to believe you haven't had to go into _any_? Not to investigate mysteriously bottomless booze, tricksters taking advantage of innocent drunken no-majs, or just boldly pursuing suspects wherever the job might take you?" Graves doesn't say anything. Frankly, he's too busy trying not to think about every single time he's done every single one of those things, sometimes in the same evening, just in case Theseus has somehow mastered legilimency. Speakeasies, as dens of iniquity and subterfuge – according to the muggle press, at any rate – tend to offer ideal targets for exactly the sort of run-of-the-mill magical criminals which form the vast bulk of his department's workload.

He's hesitated too long. Theseus' face lights up. "You _do_ ," he whispers reverently.

Graves doesn't bother denying it. "We're not going."

"We _are_."

Graves waits expectantly, but that is apparently the end of Theseus' argument. Feeling mildly insulted, he points out, "You're too drunk to apparate. You'll leave half of yourself here, if you're lucky."

"Then it's a good thing you've been boring so far." Theseus hooks an arm through Graves' and looks down at him expectantly. As is inevitable when Graves refuses to indulge his every whim, he resorts to honest-to-Morgana _batting his eyelashes_ at him.

"I told you to never do that again," Graves grumbles, but it remains horrifying enough that he apparates both of them away.

\----------

The speakeasy is hidden away in the cellar of a funeral home. Naturally, Theseus is absolutely delighted by this, as well as the tedious exchange of passwords about precisely whose funeral they're attending and the necessary transfiguration to acquire the appropriate flowers in their lapels at this time of night. Graves tries to hide a glimmer of relief that it works, given his local knowledge has obviously grown out of date lately. Clearly this particular establishment isn't concerned about the no-maj law enforcement learning the codes, meaning presumably there are some fairly influential figures invested in keeping the place open. Wizards and no-majs might differ in a great many ways, but not as many as he'd like.

(He hears Grindelwald paraphrasing those words, imagines him whispering them into the ear of anyone who'd listen at MACUSA, and forces down the urge to throw up.)

Possibly it's his imagination, but Theseus seems to grip his arm a little tighter than necessary as they descend the stairs, only letting go to shed his coat and scarf for the prettily smiling but unquestionably bored girl just inside. Graves hands over his own coat with far greater reluctance, as well as a muggle note for her troubles, and her smile momentarily turns more genuine. He thinks he sees Theseus turn away sharply when he looks up again, but that could just be the paranoia talking again.

"Just remember not to act like law enforcement," he mutters as he draws level with Theseus at the archway into the bar proper. "They can always tell, if you're not careful."

Theseus just looks at him. "Perce," he says, in a familiar tone which suggests he thinks Graves is being very stupid, "have you _seen_ this place? Why in Merlin's name would I want to act like an auror _here_?"

It is, frankly, exactly the sort of place Theseus _would_ like. This may or may not have influenced Graves' choice, he couldn't say for sure. It's one of the rarer establishments with a dancefloor, not just its own girls, and Graves can already see Theseus eyeing the dancers with unmistakeable glee. At least watching Theseus' idea of dancing should be entertaining – not to mention distracting him from bothering Graves for a while.

Theseus immediately makes a beeline for the crowd by the bar. On the one hand, Graves feels he should probably go supervise; on the other, his temporary limited freedom does enable him to find a small table which is as tucked away as possible with space at such a premium. Even better, he can see the whole room while keeping his back to a solid wall. Graves can feel himself relaxing, however minutely. The music's good; it reminds him of missions he ran in Harlem last year. He’d liked it there.

This vantage point also allows him to watch Theseus performing some sort of shimmy from bar to table, seemingly torn between dancing to a particularly bouncy jazz number and preserving the two drinks. Graves is admittedly out of practice concerning the latter – he was never _in_ practice for the former – but he's fairly certain that half the liquid should have splashed across the floor by the time Theseus reaches him, and he definitely sees at least one drink make a bid for freedom before magically changing its mind and slopping back into its glass. 'Magically' in a literal sense. "What’s wrong with you?" he hisses, as Theseus proudly sets both glasses down.

Theseus blinks at him, still bobbing but subtly and making Graves feel a little seasick if he's quite honest. "You would have preferred a mint julep?"

Graves refuses to let himself get distracted by asking for clarification. "There. Are. _No-Majs_ ," he growls instead.

Theseus shrugs, making that ridiculous 'psh' sound again, and flops down into the other chair. (Graves notices he also orients it to face the room, and that makes him feel a little sad.) "Nobody's going to notice something as small as that _here_. Fairly certain I heard someone back there talking about green fairies, and he looks as muggle as they come."

Graves considers treating Theseus to the bimonthly lecture on judging people's magical status based on appearances – truly one of the wonders of MACUSA – except even he has to admit that the gentleman Theseus is indicating looks like he’d struggle to levitate a feather, even if he does have any magical talent. "Still – " he starts, feeling the need to be the responsible adult yet again, only to be interrupted by Theseus firmly sliding a highball glass towards him. He stares down at it. "What now?”

"Gin rickey," Theseus says, as if that means anything.

"What's in it?"

"Gin." He seems unmoved as ever by Graves' glare. "I watched them make it, Perce, I'm fairly certain it's almost entirely gin. Bit of soda, maybe. Think a lemon was involved, but not much." Then, in a strangely offended tone, "You _like_ gin."

Graves does. (He's drunk a lot of it, lately.) That doesn't do anything to make the glass look any less ominous. Beers in the _Hippogriff_ at the end of the day are one thing. He drinks gin, generally, because he wants to get drunk. "What's yours?" he asks by way of changing the subject, and possibly also to delay the inevitable.

Theseus waggles his eyebrows, in a manner which is far more ominous. "They call it," he says, in a low voice which Graves recognises as Theseus' idea of 'seductive' and everybody's else's idea of 'possibly coming down with a cold', " _Between the Sheets_."

Graves looks at him. Theseus raises his cocktail glass with a smile, takes a long sip – then his eyes widen, he actually coughs a bit, and he looks at the drink with fervent reverence. " _Percy_ ," he says. "I have been wasting my time. This is the perfect drink."

Never a good sign. "If mine's almost pure gin...?"

"Brandy," Theseus says, with an odd small smile on his face, his eyes never leaving the glass cradled in his hand. "White rum. Triple sec." He takes another deep gulp, and this time sighs with very real satisfaction.

Graves thinks he may have made a horrible mistake.

\----------

It is Theseus Scamander’s firm conviction that he can dance.

It is the conviction of anyone who’s ever seen him try that he certainly cannot, but that it also might be too dangerous to get close enough to tell him that.

Graves has a certain painful familiarity with the Theseus Scamander Flail, but he'll admit it's been a while since he's seen it inflicted on the wider world. His drink does indeed turn out to be mostly gin – now that he thinks about it, the name rings a bell, but he rather suspects the recipe's been 'improved' here in the interest of showing off the wares – and he supposes he should be slightly alarmed that it's already mostly gone. If he isn't alarmed by that, then he should definitely care that Theseus saw fit to get him another while supplying his new Between the Sheets problem – a sentence which frankly could have been applied to Theseus before now, just more metaphorically.

Incredibly, Graves really can feel himself relaxing amongst all this noise and smoke. Wizarding society is extremely insular, America even more so judging by what he remembers of Europe, but no-majs really don't care who anyone else is unless they're being personally inconvenienced. Nobody trying not to notice him, or lying poorly about what they’re really thinking. Only one person here even knows his name. 

Speaking of, Theseus has somehow convinced at least a third no-maj women to partner him now. As Graves witnesses the chaos, he suddenly recognises two steps and realises Theseus is attempting the Charleston – 'attempting' being the key word. Then again, what Theseus lacks in dancing skill he more than makes up for in enthusiasm, and his current partner clearly doesn't mind, given she can’t go more than five seconds without giggling.

Graves glances down at the table and realises he's moved onto the second glass of mostly-gin without thinking about it. That's probably not a good sign either.

Keeping one eye on Theseus laughing like a lunatic, he leans forward and takes a cautious experimental sip of Theseus’ cocktail, whose name he refuses to ever think again. It doesn't taste that bad, although it also tastes mostly of alcohol. Graves has a second sip, just to be sure. Yes, definitely alcohol.

His attention abruptly snaps to a woman making her way towards him. She pauses at almost every table, handing something out from the tray around her neck, but Graves can identify a calculated route when he sees one. He tenses and sits back in his seat, aiming to look casual while the gin stays where it is. Finally, she draws level with him and smiles with far too many teeth. (Grindelwald used to smile, all the time, and nothing turns the stomach quite like the wrong smile on your own face.)

"Cigarettes, honey?"

"Excuse me?" He's briefly thrown for a loop, before he gets a closer look at her tray. Of course, he berates himself. Cigarette girl. He's only been to a few of these places before but he still should have recognised the type.

He's hesitated too long: her smile's starting to show the strain. Purely in the interest of moving her along (she's blocking the room), he feels in a pocket for more no-maj money and receives a packet with an over-stylised logo printed on it. He waves off the offer of matches and she's gone before he remembers why they're being offered. Shame to waste the cigarettes, though; he hasn't had one for months. (There are quite a few things he hasn't done for months.) He shakes one out, places it in his mouth and cups his hands around it in the same manner as many of the men in here. When he lowers his hands, the cigarette is lit. Perfectly natural. And sweet Morgana, it tastes far too good.

Time starts to go a little liquid after that, the way it always used to with the mixture of decent quality cigarettes and decent quantity gin. It means Graves isn't exactly sure how long he's been sitting there, save for the facts of starting a second cigarette and almost finishing his glass, when Theseus flops down next to him and steals a cigarette which seems a little too eager to jump into his hand. His hair's sticking up at all sorts of odd angles from sweat and his shirt is definitely approaching 'debauched', the combination of the two rendering him almost ten years younger. It gives Graves a quite unexpected wave of déjà vu.

“Do you remember – ” he starts, but catches himself just in time. Theseus misses it, more interested in trying to finish the cigarette the same way he seems set on finishing his drinks tonight, and Graves forces himself to focus on the near-beard, the haircut, the clothes, all the ways that this isn’t the Theseus from Paris right after the war ended. Just as well really. The last thing Graves needs is Theseus deciding to introduce American no-majs to the idea of same-sex dancing.

Theseus downs the rest of his glass, then springs back to his feet. "I'm guessing you're not joining me?" Graves arches an eyebrow, and receives an actual pout in return. "You can't just sit in the corner your whole life," Theseus mutters, as if that means anything, before wandering off.

Only a few minutes later, however, he's back, and this time he's not alone. Graves nods awkwardly at the woman at Theseus' side, whose smile seems friendly but also slightly sympathetic. "I just need a favour, Perce," Theseus says – words which never fail to send a shiver up Graves' spine. "Well," he adds, making a face, "it's Gracie here who needs the favour, really."

"It's not me," Gracie insists, in an unmistakeable Queens accent which instantly endears her to Graves. "My cousin, Joan – she's been sitting on her own all night, her man's a real louse and figures she'll keep waiting, and I just want her to have one dance so's we can leave, and Theece here says you're a gentleman and won't try nothin' with her, so will you do it?"

Graves stares at her for a moment, then slowly turns away and mouths “‘Theece’?” with his hand shielding Gracie’s view. Theseus just smiles back. "You wouldn't make a liar out of me, would you, Perce?"

Graves resists the urge to point out that he would be perfectly happy to make him a corpse. There is, after all, a lady present. Unfortunately, that concern delays him just long enough for Gracie to vanish and then reappear with a sulky looking brunette in tow, who looks about as happy with how her life is going as Graves. However, when Gracie explains the situation, or at least her perception of it, Joan so visibly lights up that Graves realises with a sinking feeling that he can’t possibly back out.

Unlike Theseus, Graves is under absolutely no illusions about his dancing ability, regardless of how much gin he's consumed. Joan proves something of an expert in leading from behind though, and Graves finds himself pointedly guided and nudged through first one song and then another. Either Gracie lied about the amount or Joan is enjoying the opportunity now that she has it.

Apparently reading his mind in an admirable manner for a no-maj, Joan glances up at him and says, "Thanks for doing this."

It takes Graves a moment to respond, since while the music is slightly slower for this number, his limbs still need supervision not to do whatever they please. Trying to meet her eyes and only look down occasionally, he manages, "I'm not very good at ignoring people when they need help."

She laughs softly, hopefully not at his dancing, although she doesn't seem particularly mean-spirited that way. "You don't have to be so dramatic about it. If anything, I'm taking advantage of you now. You can leave if you want."

"It's all right." They lapse into silence for a while longer, before he asks, knowing it's a little forward, "Your choice of partner doesn't seem...ideal."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," she remarks, then her eyes widen. "Oh! You mean Eddie?" She sighs, head tipping back a little. "He's not really my choice. It was Gracie's idea: she says I should step out with a man occasionally, 'else people might start thinking there's something wrong with me. Tonight's the first time I met the fella, and trust me, it's gonna be the last if I have any say in it."

Graves thinks he can sympathise, at least a little. "Your cousin usually drags you out to these places?"

Joan laughs, quite suddenly and really rather loud, instantly clapping a hand over her mouth to try to stifle the noise. Fortunately, while it does catch the attention of nearby couples, they clearly decide Joan's drunk and leave them to it, and frankly Graves can’t blame them. Joan gets herself under control enough to lower her hand and explain, although the shake remains in her voice. "She's not my _cousin_ ," she tells him, in a supposed-to-be-sly tone which instantly recalls every tedious family party when the older children ended up trading alleged secret knowledge in an attempt to sound grown-up, "not exactly. We're... _close_ , you know?" She actually winks at him.

"Oh," Graves says, not entirely sure what's happening, before, " _Oh_."

Joan winks again, and the blush on her face might not be entirely down to the alcohol. "Hence wanting to keep up appearances."

Wizarding society might not always encourage such relationships, but Graves is well aware that that's nothing compared to what no-maj society thinks of them. He finds himself rapidly reassessing both Joan and Gracie: they're a lot braver than he thought. "You're sure you should be telling me this?" It doesn't seem like something Joan should want to blurt out to complete strangers, regardless of how much she's had to drink.

"Gracie thinks you two are on the level – at least, she thinks that about your fella – and I trust Gracie."

Graves lets his eyes fall close, just for a moment. Leave it to Theseus to track down the two women who came to a _speakeasy_ to try to look respectable. He lets the 'fella' comment slide, if only because he never wants to get into any discussion along those lines. Besides, it never does well to try to explain their relationship, and especially when unable to use words like 'auror'. When he opens his eyes again, it barely takes a glance to locate Theseus twirling Gracie in a manner which seems fairly excessive and send him a meaningful look. As ever, Theseus just smiles blithely and looks away.

"Hey, are you all right?" He looks back down at Joan, who's biting her lip nervously. Understandable, of course.

"I'm fine," he insists, attempting a reassuring smile when she continues to worry at her lip. He's fairly out of practice at it, but she does at least smile back, so it can't be that bad. "It's all fine. Although I may kill him later."

"Trust me," Joan tells him, "I am going to have a thing or two to say to Gracie later. I get that she doesn't like seeing me with somebody else, even if it’s just pretend, but jeez she sure found a lousy one for tonight. Won't even talk to me, just keeps looking at me like he's picturing me in one of those magazines they don't exactly sell over the counter, you know?" Graves does know. He rather wishes he didn't, but it's remarkable how often wizarding and no-maj contraband get mixed up. It only takes one winking pin-up slipped in amongst the rest behind the counter for the obliviators to get called in. "So not only is he a pig, but he ain't even doing his job at making me look, er..." She giggles to herself. "I guess 'respectable' ain't quite the right word in this situation."

"In my experience," Graves tells her, quite honestly, "respectability is relative." It relies entirely on other people's standards; other people's opinions. (There had been a few slightly surreal moments, left chained up and surprisingly bored, when Graves had found himself worrying what Grindelwald's actions would do to the family name. It had felt like the first stages of insanity.)

"Honey," Joan says, "I'll drink to that."

Which they do. Joan has a knack for acquiring drinks worthy of Theseus and Graves has to race to match her speed at vanishing them. He blames this for the fact that when she nudges him pointedly back towards the dance floor, he doesn't care about looking like an idiot anymore. The band starts on something much faster than previously and she mutters in his ear, "I got a reputation to lie about," before leading him through the sort of dance which he can't stop to think about, just follow the beat and her movements and hints as best he can. He catches sight of Theseus a few times, almost close enough for a flailing leg to catch him in the shins, and when Theseus grins at him bright and shining, it feels only natural to grin back.

It's probably somewhat inevitable, then, that it ends so suddenly.

Someone shoves Graves from behind and he stumbles, from the surprise more than anything else, wrist instinctively turning and about to flick forwards to bring his wand into his hand. (He wasn’t fast enough before.) He only manages to arrest the movement when he gets a clear look at his assailant, who seems very pathetic indeed: exactly the sort of average appearance combined with exaggerated posturing Graves sees every single day of his life as an auror. The only feature of any particular note is a moustache which has clearly been lovingly tended and oiled but still looks painted on with tar. The man is swaying slightly on the spot and glaring at Graves with the belligerent air of someone who has decided he is going to get into a fight and never mind whatever the world tries to say or do otherwise. Graves already feels bored by him.

"Hey," the man says, rightly insecure about keeping Graves' attention, "leave my girl alone."

Wonderful. 

Fortunately, Joan does not attempt to defend her honour or any such nonsense, which would only draw the delightful Eddie's attention. Instead, Graves notices her stepping back into the crowd before they can focus on her. Smart girl.

"You deaf or something?" Eddie clicks his fingers (Grindelwald used to click once, twice, three times to bring him around, "don't fall asleep on me, Director, we still have so much to talk about") and then yells out a slew of no-maj curses when a glass smashes into his arm. Ah. In Graves' defence, wizards have all sorts of ways of casting spells. While Eddie spins around on the spot, yelling for the coward who threw that to come forward, Graves catches sight of Theseus staring at him from the other side of the room as Gracie and Joan beat a fast retreat out of the speakeasy. Good luck to them, really.

Graves shakes his head and moves to leave himself. Wandless magic and drinking make for an unfortunate combination, especially around no-majs. He had hoped he had more control than that, but clearly not. This is made even more evident when, upon realising Joan has vanished, Eddie loses interest in phantom glass-throwers and hurls himself at Graves' back, only for a chair to mysteriously catch him in the shins, turning his bizarre attempt at a war-cry into a yell of pain. "You!" he roars, any intimidation rather undermined by the way he's hopping around. "The fuck are you?" He seizes a glass from a nearby table, no-majs rapidly fanning out around them save for some fairly large men making a meaningful beeline towards them.

As Eddie smashes it against his own head – or possibly it smashes him – followed by a foot flying out from under him as his shoe takes on a life of its own, Graves feels a hand close around his arm and yank him back. He should fight it, but this time something in him recognises the touch. "Come on," Theseus hisses, "fun as this is, I think we’ve overstayed our welcome." Graves glances down to see Theseus shove his wand back up his sleeve as they beat a fast retreat through a rather convenient gap in the crowd. Well, that explains the shoe.

Their coats are equally conveniently waiting for them at the door, which promptly flies open for them only to slam shut again once they're through. Theseus flicks his wand at the lock, and not a moment too soon: the door immediately starts shaking under the fists of what Graves supposes constitutes the speakeasy's 'muscle'. Pulling on his coat, he tugs Theseus – clearly considering extra precautions – up the stairs, focusing on keeping his breathing steady. At the top, the 'funeral director' nods at the two of them as they leave. "My condolences, sirs."

Outside, without talking, they cut down one alleyway at a brisk pace, then another, before Theseus suddenly breaks into a run down the next wide street and Graves has no choice but to chase him. His coat whips out behind him, he can hear Theseus laughing up ahead, and his blood feels like it's fizzing in his veins.

Some minutes later, Theseus comes to a halt, bent over with both hands braced on his thighs. Graves slows first to a jog, then a walk as he reaches him, breathing fairly hard himself. Of course, they're both older than they were a decade ago.

Graves reaches out to touch Theseus' shoulder. Abruptly, Theseus straightens up, and Graves only gets a brief glimpse of blue eyes full of steely conviction before he's shoved backwards into another alleyway, brick cold behind his back, and Theseus is kissing him.

Graves' eyes slide closed for a moment, hands gripping onto Theseus' shoulders a shade too tightly. Then he shoves him away, or at least holds him at arms' length. "Are you insane?"

Theseus pouts at him like a small child. "Sometimes I wonder," he remarks drily. "You're not exactly easy."

Graves scowls, even as the flush rises to his cheeks, clearly the effects of the alcohol. Presumably he relaxes his arms just enough, because Theseus surges forward to kiss him again, mouth hot against his and hands twisting into his hair, nails scratching against the shaved sides. Graves' own hands find themselves somehow tangled up in Theseus' coat, one sliding under Theseus' scarf and drawing out a startled yelp at the sensation of chilled skin against body warmth. That makes Graves grin, and he feels it when Theseus does the same.

Then reality hits again, and he shoves Theseus away again. "Not here."

Theseus rolls his eyes. "Yes here, for _fuck's_ sake, Perce."

He moves to initiate a third attempt, only this time Graves is determined not to give in. Not that it makes a huge amount of difference: the distance left between them is still small enough to feel Theseus’s exasperated sigh against his face. "And what do you think happens when someone catches us?"

" _If_ , Perce."

" _When_ ," Graves insists. "Never mind what happened back there, I am not being arrested by no-maj policemen for deviance."

Theseus laughs at that, bending enough for his forehead to rest against Graves' shoulder. "Well," he says softly, apparently speaking to Graves' coat, "they wouldn't be wrong."

Graves glances around. He can't see anyone else, but then, that doesn't mean there's no one nearby. (He didn’t know until it was too late.) Besides, he doesn't trust his luck at the moment. He doesn't push Theseus away though – at least, not until it grows obvious that the man is seriously considering having a nap on him. "Theseus," he hisses, bracing himself against the wall to take the extra weight. Theseus grumbles at him. Graves frees an arm to shake him lightly by the shoulder.

"Go'way," Theseus slurs. "M'comfy." He groans as Graves manages to lever him away. "Spoilsport."

"Then I’m leaving you here."

Graves makes it all of five steps, back out into the main street, when he hears running steps and abruptly staggers under the weight of a fully grown man attempting a piggyback ride. He greets this with the full range of swearwords it deserves, derived over the years from battlefields, auror missions, and Seraphina's candid opinions. He also tries not to get strangled by Theseus' death grip, or tip over backwards, or, most of all, do anything to encourage this lunacy. Without assistance, Theseus has to give up on the attempt, although he does manage to steal Graves' scarf in the process and refuses to return it.

Graves shakes his head at him, stopping when the world moves too much, but he can’t help smiling as well at the sheer ridiculousness of it. Still, just to stall any further attempts, he starts walking again, not really sure where he's going but very aware of Theseus at his side.

"So where can we do it then?"

"Do what?"

Theseus gestures between them. "What do you think? You say we can't do it here. So where?"

Graves considers this, looking around and trying to place exactly where they are. The map of the city he usually has emblazoned in his brain keeps slipping away from him when he reaches for it, melting at the edges, but he has a vague idea of the district and tries to apply some active thought. He realises with a sinking feeling that they are both far too drunk to apparate now, which effectively strands them.

Theseus clearly has a similar thought. "Nice night for a walk."

As if on cue, it starts to snow.

The part of Graves' brain which earned him the cursed title of 'the responsible one', resistant to all but the strongest alcoholic pummelling, grumbles at the sight. Even it gets distracted, however, when confronted by the sight of one of Britain's leading aurors sticking his tongue out and angling it to catch snowflakes. Graves finds himself strangely captivated by the sight, especially the expression of intense concentration on Theseus' face.

Theseus' eyes flick down from the sky to him and he frowns, tongue still hanging out. Then he snaps it back into his mouth as he reaches up to unwind the worn red and yellow scarf from around his neck – still loosened from Graves' hands, he notes with a rush of warmth – before taking hold of either end and looping it around Graves' neck. Then he grins with familiar mischief, and before Graves can stop him, he's yanked in for another short fast kiss. This time, however, he's released just as quickly, and Theseus is arranging the scarf around his neck with an intense focus worthy of a full-scale mission. It’s warm around Graves' neck: not just from the wool, but Theseus' body. He's standing so close, and Graves can’t help but sway a little towards him.

Theseus hesitates, eyes catching his, before he nods decisively and steps back to admire his handiwork. "You should wear colour more often, Perce," is his verdict. "Looks good."

They pick a direction more or less at random, stumbling alongside each other. They would probably stand a better chance of walking in a vaguely straight line if they let go of each other, but at some point they get entangled – from Theseus using the scarf as a useful handhold again, or Graves deciding that it's very important he straightens Theseus' coat that very instant, or any of a rather ridiculous number of mis- or perfectly-timed kisses which catch each other’s faces, their hair, their necks – and neither them really tries very hard to let go. Once or twice a no-maj does appear on the sidewalk or exiting a building and Graves tries to extricate himself with a spectacular lack of coordination which becomes the most hilarious thing in the world to him, while Theseus has acquired an alarming habit of spelling trashcans to tip themselves over and occasionally clatter out attempted renditions of the songs played in the speakeasy ‘as a distraction’.

At some point they meander down a side street and find themselves overlooking the East River. Graves realises exactly where they are; Theseus celebrates with actual fireworks, setting off at least five before Graves seizes his arm and they make another run for it. Somehow Graves' attempts to convey that they need to be quieter and attract less attention devolve into a full minute of the two of them shushing each other in increasingly exaggerated hisses.

Graves remarks, "We're not that far from the docks."

"Hurrah!" Theseus thinks about this. "So?" Then he thinks about it some more. "Are the docks in New York anything like the docks in London?"

"Just follow me."

\----------

The bar truly doesn't seem like much, but then, it hardly needs to advertise itself. Those who are welcome can always find it, and those who can't were never welcome to begin with. It sits on a non-descript corner of the docks, down a particularly shadowy stretch of stairs – nothing to an easy lumos, of course, but enough to deter any no-majs inclined to investigate despite the charms to the contrary.

Not all wizards work at MACUSA, just the same as the rest of the world. Obviously government service doesn't call to all, and there are those who genuinely despise the idea of setting foot anywhere near the Woolworth Building. Some of them elected to set up out here, remaining amongst the immigrant communities which feel more familiar to them than the second- or further-generationed New Yorkers. Graves supposes he can't blame them, or rather he recognises that he can't really understand, hailing as he does from a family which has called this country home for literally centuries. Several bars in the area primarily service wizards who choose to work out in the dockyards, unloading ships and so on alongside the no-maj workers. However, Graves has often found himself out here at this bar in particular (not in a long while), because he's looking for another kind of company.

He stumbles down the steps easily enough, albeit not gracefully; Theseus follows, mostly by leaning on him. Graves touches his wand to the corner of an old recruitment poster, ragged and yellowed and barely recognisable, and traces out the familiar insignia. With that, the door shimmers into view and opens under his hand, warm light washing out across the stone steps along with the equally warm murmur of voices. Graves gestures Theseus through first, ignoring the exaggerated bow he receives in recognition, then follows him inside.

"Over here, Sarge!"

Francis Bloeckman – formerly Private Bloeckman, now simply known as Frank – pauses long enough in his eternal polishing of glasses to beckon the two of them over to the bar. Graves ignores Theseus' questioning look, already shrugging out of his coat. Theseus' scarf stays where it is, and neither of them comment.

"Evening, Frank," Graves greets, "sorry to drop in without warning."

"Bah," Frank snorts, shaking his head vigorously, "you know you're always welcome in here, Sarge. Although," he looks away from the glass he’s been examining against the light to examine Graves instead, "it has been a while since I last saw you. Heard all sorts from the regulars. Always interesting, trying to sort out the truth from the lies, isn't it?"

Graves tenses, never entirely sure how much Frank knows. The barman has an ear and a tongue for gossip, that much is certain. He claims he personally serves at the bar because he finds house-elves 'unnerving buggers' and prefers the personal touch, but anybody who knows him also knows that it's more about overhearing the clientele. Graves has relied a great deal on Frank’s uncanny ability to search out the slightest bit of information in the past, both in the city and, as it happens, when they needed intel during the war. However, while Grindelwald's deception has certainly made headlines, the stories have been noticeably cagey concerning exactly how long he was running Graves' department. (Some have their own agendas; others evidently think even less of Graves than he realised.)

"I've been busy."

"So I've heard."

Frank holds his gaze for a moment longer, then abruptly turns to Theseus. "I know you from somewhere, don't I? No!" He holds up a finger. "Don't tell me. Let's see." He leans forward over the bar and peers at Theseus closely. Graves sees that the glass has been deemed insufficiently bright, same as always, and Frank has resumed polishing it as if a spell wouldn’t do the job in seconds.

"Lizard name," Frank muses slowly. Graves suspects he placed Theseus the moment they stepped inside. A beat later, Frank nods and exclaims, "Scamander! You borrowed our regiment for that curse business in '16, after getting yanked out of the Somme!" (Graves sees Theseus' omnipresent smile freeze, just for an instant.) "What brings you to our fair city, Captain?" As with a great deal of New Yorkers, Frank appears to mean the ‘fair’ sarcastically, yet Graves doesn't doubt that if anybody agreed with him then it would be the last thing they'd remember before waking up in the hospital.

"Oh, the usual," Theseus says breezily. "Trying to get Percy here to loosen up for five minutes." Theseus sways towards him just enough to squeeze his thigh, still smiling beatifically. Frank’s eyes flick down to the hand, back up to Graves' face, and then he nods with a slow smile. Graves feels like he should perhaps glare at that, but honestly, the combination of the surroundings with the fairly excessive amounts of gin still swimming through his system make it hard to feel particularly bothered.

Frank smirks at them, commenting, "I may have heard something about some wizards having a night on the town." Before Graves can ask him to clarify, however, he reaches beneath the bar and produces a bottle containing a liquid of indeterminate colour and ominously lacking a label, slamming it on the bar before them with evident pride. "Nothing but the finest for you boys."

Graves eyes the bottle with the caution it deserves. Frank’s concoctions were legendary on the front – the benefit, he always claimed, of enthusiasm and a family well-versed in potion-inventing – and a stable place of residence has hardly diminished that reputation. The sight definitely makes the sensible part of his mind squawk in alarm, recognising something which could definitely lay it to rest for the night.

Needless to say, Theseus has already taken a 'healthy' gulp, straight from the bottle.

Frank meaningfully places the glass he's been polishing throughout the conversation down in front of Graves, taking advantage of Theseus' cursing to take back the bottle and pour him an equally 'healthy' portion. "Never let it be said I left you wanting, Sarge."

Graves holds the glass away from Theseus' attempts to steal it, considering, then shrugs and downs it. First it burns, the way Frank’s drinks always do, and afterwards it tastes incredible, the way Frank’s drinks also always do. The world starts to go fuzzy at the edges, and that is most familiar of all.

\----------

Later on, Graves only vaguely recalls how the singing started. Of course, later on Graves struggles to remember many of the details of what happened in Frank’s. They tend to come to him in flashes over the next day, usually precisely when he’s trying to focus on something serious and/or tedious.

Certainly, after they’d started making some headway on the bottle Frank had waved over a few drinkers from a nearby table, who had transpired to be survivors from another of Graves' regiments. That was no surprise in itself: in the manner of most wizards fighting in Europe, they'd all been shuffled around between various no-maj and purely wizard battalions, with the result that a great many of particularly America's wizarding soldiers had met at some point or another. Nevertheless, this inevitably led to exchanges of the sort of rambling, winding, possibly-economical-with-the-truth war stories which often transpired amongst drinking ex-soldiers. Naturally Theseus had seized his moment and treated the whole thing as a challenge, answering each story with a more elaborate and fantastical one. A fair few of them involved Graves, who had rather hoped nobody would ever hear about Marseilles, or Weis, or of course that landmark in Belgium, although something about either Theseus' renditions or the accompanying drinks had made him proud of them. 

Graves had definitely lost his jacket at some point, the bar hot enough to make him roll up his sleeves as well. Theseus may have greeted this by wolf-whistling, but the whole while Graves could feel his gaze on him, hot and decidedly full of promise. It had grown harder and harder to think why they weren’t touching each other, except that they were, constantly, Theseus leaning closely over him to take back the bottle while Graves murmured in his ear.

At some point a handful of former nurse-witches had joined the growing rabble, and, after thoroughly trouncing Theseus with a tale of wizarding intelligence, inventive curses, and some unfortunate but ultimately heroic foxes, had launched into one of the filthiest versions of a popular wizard trench song that Graves had ever heard. Which had led inevitably to another competition and somebody producing a fiddle from somewhere, only Graves had found himself rather distracted by Theseus deciding that this was the perfect moment to resume their mutual business from the alleyway. 

Several songs had passed before the catcalls finally forced Theseus to defend his honour, with, in his own words, "a classic from back home."

\----------

"...but the _hedgehog_ cannot be _buggered_ at all!"

Graves sings the final line together with the rest of the bar.

"It's an old folk song from a few counties over," Theseus enthusiastically informs nobody in particular, "although you'll find it all over Britain. Very popular amongst the Yorkshire witches."

Graves is wondering whether anybody even asked about it, or whether Theseus just likes to elaborate on popular songs to anybody who'll listen to him – based on experience, the latter seems far more likely – when he finally registers that the coughs coming from just over his shoulder are growing more and more pointed, and may very well be addressed to him. He rolls his head backwards over the back of the chair he's currently slumped in, and it takes him a moment to consolidate the upside-down face.

"Yes, Goldstein?"

Tina Goldstein coughs again, this time seemingly from nerves. "Um. Hello, sir." She glances around the bar. "Are you having a nice night?"

Graves raises an eyebrow and straightens up, turning to face her properly. "Is something wrong, Goldstein?"

"Not _wrong_ exactly, sir," Tina says carefully, "but I was just wondering if I could persuade you to come back to MACUSA with me?"

Graves blinks at her slowly. He might very well be blind drunk, but he'd have to be half dead not to read her body language: constantly shifting on the spot, fiddling with her coat only to catch herself and shove her hands deep into her pockets, and biting at her lip the moment she stops talking. "You're taking me in?"

"Both of you!" Tina corrects him far too loudly. "And it's not really taking you in, but – well, it sort of is, we've had reports from a no-maj speakeasy about flying glasses, and about musical dustbins, and fireworks over the East River, and now there are a couple of no-majs around here who can't figure out where all the noise is coming from – "

"They can _hear_ us?" Graves interrupts. Before Tina can elaborate, he's sitting up in the chair as best he can while not falling off it and bellowing over to Frank, "You don't have silencing charms?"

"It's not like it's normally this loud!" Frank yells back, looking decidedly unashamed about his terrible charm upkeep. Tomorrow Graves is coming back here and personally replacing every single one. It's just shoddy maintenance, really.

He doesn't realise he's said any of that out loud until he notices the way Tina is nodding and making rather patronising sounds of agreement, with the air of someone trying to soothe a small child or potentially dangerous animal.

Speaking of...

"NEWT!" Both Graves and Tina look up in alarm as Theseus thoughtlessly abandons whatever audience he had and half-hugs-half-tackles an extremely alarmed Newt Scamander. "Noooooooot," Theseus continues, giggling into Newt's coat. "You know that's how they say your name? I heard them. They say Nooooooooooooo..." The word trails off as Theseus apparently finds it too hilarious to finish. Graves observes that despite Newt's supposedly extensive experience with tentacles, he has done little to extract himself from Theseus' drunken idea of a hug save for freeing one arm to pet at Theseus' hair good-naturedly.

Graves turns his head back towards Tina and has to laugh at her expression: one he's seen all too many times on those unfortunate souls encountering Theseus Scamander for the first time. His reaction only makes her look even more alarmed. "That’s Newt's brother?"

"Family resemblance?"

"Somebody recognised him with you in the _Hippogriff_. When the reports started coming in, Newt didn't seem all that surprised." She pauses. "Did you seriously get into a fight with a no-maj?"

"He started it," Graves mutters, feeling around under his chair for the glass he's sure must be there, before cursing extravagantly and gesturing with his hand. The wayward glass obediently jumps into it, albeit spilling half its contents in transit, which naturally requires more cursing. Graves wanted to drink that.

Apparently once again he's been speaking without meaning to, because Tina's face sets into something decidedly firmer and she announces, "I think you've had enough, sir."

"I don't."

"Your opinion," Tina informs him, "doesn't really matter here." Then she belatedly adds, "Sir."

Graves is sufficiently impressed by this show of insubordination to begin the slow process of standing up – an act requiring too much coordination by far, as well as a break halfway through to attempt to shove his hair back out of his face, the pomade a distant memory in this heat. Despite the laborious process, 'relieved' would be something of an understatement to describe Tina's expression.

Once on his feet, Graves finds the floor extremely disagreeable concerning remaining flat and non-treacherous. The floor should be grateful he wants to walk on it at all.

"Of course, sir," Tina says soothingly, more relaxed now that she doesn't have to work out how to get him standing but just making him remain so. The crowd around them parts obediently, deferring either to Graves or the auror who's guiding him. Newt has somehow manoeuvred Theseus over to prop him next to the exit, and is now gently batting his brother's hands away from the bottles on a nearby table. This is helped, no doubt, by the fact that Theseus seems extremely reluctant to let go of him – until Graves gets close enough, at which point Theseus decides to drape himself over him instead, almost sending both of them to the floor. 

Distracted by trying to keep them both upright, Graves is only vaguely aware of Newt commenting to Tina about drinking never making an awful lot of sense to him. Tina's response is similarly lost, but it sounds rather dry and definitely touches on the Scamander capacity for making trouble. She is of course quite right in this observation, but both of them seem rather startled when he tells them as much – possibly because he says it a little loudly despite the noise in the bar, or because Theseus has somehow worked two of his shirt buttons open. 

Shaking her head with what Graves detects as an air of disapproval – a little rich really, given Graves distinctly remembers her own inebriation at last year's enforced MACUSA Yule Party resulting in an extensive treatise on the finer points of wizarding law to anybody who would listen before her sister had rescued them all – Tina turns away to pull the door open, and Graves realises a very real problem.

"Frank!" he yells over to the bar again. "Where's my fucking coat?"

Frank produces the coat in question from behind the bar – whether it was for safekeeping or 'inspection', the world will never know – with an admonishing "Next time don't leave it almost a year before you visit!"

Graves gives a mock-salute in response to this, and he really does mean to do so, even if he can feel the waves of disapproval emanating from Tina behind him. With a gesture, he summons the coat over to him, forcing Theseus to let go of him and perform a semi-recognisable pirouette out of the way. He ruins the effect by crashing into one of the other patrons, starting what looks promisingly like a slow-motion domino effect, although Tina pointedly seizes Graves' arm while he's still only halfway into his coat and hauls him out of the door before he can observe it any further.

Despite the alcohol’s warm glow, Graves can still appreciate how cold it is outside. The snow has stopped falling, rendering the streets inconveniently slippery but no more picturesque than usual, and a fairly insidious wind has picked up. Fortunately, Frank has remembered to maintain the anti-slip charms on the stairway, so none of them break their necks on the way back up to street-level.

"Could you put your arm around me, sir?" Tina asks, and then rolls her eyes as Theseus snorts and Graves raises an eyebrow at her. "To side-along, _sir_. I'm not carrying you back but I'm not letting you apparate either."

"Did you always talk to me like this?" Graves asks, at the same time Theseus says, "Bloody hell, there's two of them." Presumably Theseus has started seeing double.

"There's nothing quite like having to collect your boss and his beau after drinking and getting into fights like they're seventeen years old," Tina informs him, "to ruin any illusions you might have had about senior aurors actually being any more mature than the rest of us."

"He's not my beau," Graves grumbles, just as Theseus says, "He says he's not my beau."

Tina glances between the two of them, then at a clearly uncomfortable Newt, before muttering, " _Men_ ," and apparating both herself and Graves away.

\---------

"The impressive thing," Graves comments, as Theseus finishes throwing up in the alleyway beside the Woolworth Building, "is that's the first time tonight."

"He always did get a little travel-sick, when we were younger," Newt says, apparently sufficiently distracted by his brother’s plight to forget that he's supposed to be uncomfortable around Graves. "Floo powder, portkeys, apparating. Mum was fine with it though. I think she liked the excuse to use the hippogriffs."

Graves is fairly familiar with tales of Mrs Scamander, generally from Theseus commenting on human versus creature hygiene or complaining about her encouraging some of Newt's more perilous habits. Tina, however, has evidently been rather more fortunate up until this point. "Didn't you have broomsticks? That's how you Brits usually travel around, right?"

Newt looks confused, perhaps more so than usual. "But we had hippogriffs."

"I'm done now," Theseus announces helpfully.

To give Tina full credit, she does manage to sneak all of them into MACUSA with very few witnesses. Graves feels like this should be worrying to him, and tries to make a mental note to investigate how she achieved it in the morning, only he can feel himself forgetting even as he tries. She does leave them alone with just Newt for supervision for a couple of minutes – the next day he will cringe at the thought of making out in front of Theseus’ younger brother, or in MACUSA at all – but more than makes up for what Graves considers a serious lapse in judgement by returning with something fried and unidentifiable from the MACUSA cafeteria. It occurs to Graves that he hasn’t eaten since before Theseus first dragged him out an eternity ago, and whatever this is, it tastes far too good. He eats his portion quickly, before Theseus can steal it.

The cell does feel like a bit much. Unfortunately, Tina doesn’t trust either of them in Graves' office, or rather with the contents of Graves' office, and apparently has orders directly from Madame President herself concerning keeping Graves on MACUSA property until the morning. Graves has no idea what Seraphina is insinuating with that, but it doesn't bode well.

Theseus, comfortable anywhere, curls up on one of the hard wooden benches and instantly falls asleep.

"I'll see you in the morning, sir," Tina says, in what sounds almost like a reassuring voice, before dragging Newt off to wherever he's holed up for the moment. Graves waves vaguely at the two of them through the bars, and is strangely flattered when Newt, glancing back, returns the gesture.

Sighing to himself, Graves rests his head against the cold iron bars, feeling the mild tingle of containment charms against his skin. (After Grindelwald's idea of restraint, this is nothing.) While the world still seems a little distant, it's already starting to solidify around him. Between the snow, the food and the cell, he already feels less drunk, even if 'sober' is still a way off. 

He definitely needs to lie down now, his eyelids growing heavier by the second.

He eyes the opposite bench to Theseus' with displeasure, before removing his coat and spreading it out on the floor. It isn't exactly comfortable, but based on previous experience he's easily drunk enough for anywhere to make do. (He's slept on worse.) 

A voice comes from his left. "I'm bored." Evidently Theseus isn’t as unconscious as previously assumed.

"Go to sleep."

"'S'boring."

"Nothing I can do about that."

Silence falls, as if Theseus is contemplating the statement in its entirety. Graves lets his eyes close.

Then he hears the sound of a body falling inelegantly – Graves imagines – to the floor, accompanied by a soft "oof". He senses someone crouched over him, hands either side of his head. He opens his eyes, and Theseus' face is barely an inch away from his own, his gaze remarkably steady, his mouth close enough that Graves can feel the words against his skin.

"Entertain me," Theseus whispers.

Graves can’t find it in him to refuse.


End file.
